Whump Bingo
by Semi-Retired Writer
Summary: A collection of shorter prompt fills for Whump Bingo prompts on Tumblr. AKA Semi-Retired Writer hurting Peter Parker a few hundred words at a time. (Beware: varying degrees of whump and emeto per prompt!)
1. Chapter 1

**O3**

" _Trying to be subtle while leaning against objects to stay upright"_

Tony didn't _want_ to bring Peter into Avengers-level fights so young, but he'd long run out of options. Government officials showed no signs of letting up, and even if they did, he hadn't forgiven the rogue members yet, not enough to just pretend nothing was wrong and trust them in a team-up. There were only so many superpowered individuals left who hadn't hidden their abilities after news of the Accords had spread. It wasn't long before they were called in under duress and he hurriedly asked the kid to temporarily join the remains of the team. He should've expected the youthful eagerness, but somehow he hadn't anticipated being cut off with a, "Yes, yes, YES!" before he even got through the request.

They made their separate ways to the block where the problem was tenuously contained by panicked looking police officers. He paid enough attention to notice that the creatures looked roughly half-humanoid, half-lizard, and all angry as he arrived, but he didn't care beyond that. In the few minutes he'd spent hanging back from the fight, FRIDAY had observed their initial attacks and defenses and highlighted their most obvious weak points in the head-up display. He passed on the information to the Spider-Man suit and Vision's more complicated interface with FRIDAY before he repeated it over the voice comms for Natasha's sake. He flew in closer to the action, and less than twenty minutes later, there were no living aliens to be found. It was by far one of their easiest battles, especially considering how small the team had become. He supposed they hadn't needed the kid today in the first place, but a little battle training couldn't hurt him if he had serious plans for joining the team as an adult.

Natasha and Vision, used to the post-battle debriefing process, had left for the tower once they'd confirmed that their work was done. Spider-Boy hadn't done this before, so Tony figured it was on him to show him the ropes. He'd catch on fast enough; he was unquestionably smart, and there really wasn't anything complicated.

"FRIDAY, give me the kid's location." He'd referred to Peter as such often enough in the compound and the tower while requesting not-so-occasional readouts from his suit that FRIDAY didn't need any clarification on who he meant. She guided him to a nearby office building until the flashy spandex suit was in sight and he could finish the flight on his own.

He didn't have to look long to realize something was off. The kid was trying to be subtle by leaning against the building, but it was clear that only one foot was bearing any weight while the other hadn't moved from its position hovering just above the ground in the time since Tony had spotted him. Even though Peter was making a frankly awful attempt to hide it, he'd taken his mask off, and his pained expression told Tony everything he needed to know. He landed with the familiar light metallic clunk of nitinol on asphalt and moved forward until there were only a couple feet between him and his trainee.

"I'll carry you. Hold still or it'll hurt more." Tony didn't wait for any confirmation before he lifted Peter away from his perch against the wall and settled him into his arms. Peter pulled his mask back on without meeting his gaze, and then they were off, heading for the med bay in the tower while Tony plotted out his "For fuck's sake, don't hide injuries from your team" speech in intricate detail.


	2. Chapter 2

**G1**

 _Trying to communicate even though they can only speak a few words at a time._

Peter is a little under the weather.

He falls into his umpteenth coughing fit of the day, hacking harshly until the fit ends and leaves him gasping for breath. Maybe "a little" is an understatement. Maybe. But not that much! He's still got an obligation to the city, and that comes first. So, he goes right back to tugging his suit up from where it fell in the floor a minute ago until it encompasses his whole body this time. He tightens it and heads for May, mask in hand.

"Hey, May," he gets out before another series of coughs cuts him off. "I'm going—" He loses the battle against another single cough. "—to patrol." He offers a shaky smile with thumbs up in the hopes of distracting her from his obvious sickness.

"How do you expect to swing around Queens when you can barely even speak?" She kind of has him there. He needs to do his part, but he also can't see himself being very helpful like this. He lets his hands drop to his side and gives up the reassuring smile.

"How about a movie instead?" It's phrased as a question, but May has a no-nonsense tone that says "no" is _not_ an option.

He takes a deep breath—and internally groans when it triggers another coughing fit—but eventually he pushes down the almost compulsion to patrol and nods his agreement to a night off.


	3. Chapter 3

**B5**

 _Chugging caffeine to try and fight the inevitable crash._

Shorter patrols were simple enough to handle without any help, but Peter still found himself far too tired at the end of his weekend patrols since they could last anywhere from three to eight hours, depending on how busy Queens was. He'd just meant to give his body an energy boost to head off the post-patrol exhaustion for once, but he hadn't counted on the traitorous Red Bull kicking his senses into overdrive.

That was what led him to take cover, crouching and shaky, on a random roof god-knows-where in what should've been the middle of his Saturday patrol. He _knew_ logically it was another case of sensory overload, but he'd never had the misfortune for it to happen while he was occupied. There were still people that needed his help, but every tiny sound was amplified until he couldn't make out anything specific in the blur of noise. There was too much to see even up here on the thirtieth story or so; all he could do was screw his eyes shut to avoid looking at anything. He'd wanted to ask Karen to filter his vision because he knew she _could_ , but he couldn't bear the thought of her voice pounding against his already overburdened ears. Even the smells—fresh pizza, overflowing dumpsters, someone who was long overdue for a shower—and the taste of the polluted air and the feeling of his heart working hard against his chest were overwhelming. He wasn't going to finish his route today. No way. He couldn't bring himself to care, too preoccupied by his own suffering for once.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, shivering and whimpering against the onslaught of sensation, but he was eventually pulled forcefully out of it by a phone call routed to the suit. He muttered a curse at the high-pitched torture that came from his ringtone and Karen's voice alert. He opened his eyes long enough to see that it was Mr. Stark, and damn, he really shouldn't ignore the guy, but he really, really, really wasn't feeling up to whatever conversation he wanted to have out of the blue like this. He asked Karen to mute the call and sighed in relief when the added noise was finally gone. It didn't last long. Mr. Stark made a second call, and when the third one came, Peter finally asked Karen to patch it through.

"What happened to you!?" Mr. Stark was shouting as soon as Peter picked up. He couldn't bite back another whimper as he wondered if he really was shouting or if the overload just made it seem that way. He realized he never answered when the voice comes through again. "Are you crying? Please tell me you're not crying. Tell me what happened, kid!"

"Please stop yelling." Strong start, Peter. Way to carry a conversation. At least it got Mr. Stark to lower his voice.

"Underoos, I need to know what caused this," he said. "All I know is that the suit forwarded your vitals to FRIDAY fifteen minutes ago, and I gave you time to get it together if it was nothing, but you haven't, and I need to know if you're hurt, kid." He finally took a breath at the end of all of that.

"I-I'm not h-hurt, Mr. Stark." He'd probably sound more convincing if he could keep the waver out of his voice, but he couldn't seem to consciously get that under control.

" _Real_ believable. I'll be there in ten to take care of it."


	4. Chapter 4

**O5**

 _Dozing off when they shouldn't and startled back awake, briefly disoriented._

Staying up all night to study for his big calculus test had paid off plenty when it came to his confidence and his grade, but at what cost?

He'd made it to the end of the test in third period before his all-nighter had caught up with him, and he'd been fighting unconsciousness ever since. It was a struggle just to stay awake through his classes, let alone learn anything. He couldn't even remember what the cafeteria had served for lunch. Overall, the day was an educational bust.

Ned wanted to come over after school even after realizing he'd mostly be witnessing one very long nap instead of hanging out as usual. With him watching over Peter on the subway ride home, he felt comfortable enough to finally give in to his body's wants and doze off as he swayed lightly in the seat he'd managed to snag.

A sudden noise tore him from sleep. Without a pause, he lunged for his backpack to grab his webshooters, ready to duck somewhere private to change and leap into battle until a glance at Ned reminded him where he was and how unstable he probably looked right now. He relaxed until he could laugh at his own first reaction to what had probably been someone dropping a purse or something. God, he really needed that nap.


	5. Chapter 5

**O1**

 _Staggering or otherwise walking ungracefully before they can catch themselves._

Peter was just trying to do something nice to show his aunt he appreciated her, but it turned out that cheeseburgers were deceptively complex. It always looked easy on TV and stuff: just cook the burger on one side, flip it, and finish the other side before adding the condiments. Easy. Nothing to get hung up on.

Except it wasn't like that in real life. First, he was dismayed to find out the hamburger meat didn't come ready-made in those patties. There was just a giant tube in their fridge full of meaty mush instead, so he had to shape some of it into what may or may not be much bigger than what he'd been expecting to work with. At least Aunt May would be well fed tonight.

With a little struggle, he had two giant hunks of hamburger waiting next to the stove while he let the oil heat up. One of the patties was still noticeably bigger than the other, and he went back and forth on which of them should eat which patty before he decided that the bigger one was probably way more than May wanted to come home to. The plan was to start by making his own meal so he could try it himself and see where he needed to improve before he went back for round two for May.

He wasn't picky about the recipe he used. He just wanted to know what seasoning to use and how long to fry the things, after all, so he settled on the first website he saw. A pinch of oregano and ten minutes later, he was putting the finishing touches on his first attempt and hoping for the best.

He made it through three unfortunately large bites before judging that it was decidedly Not Done and tossing the rest of the thing in the garbage with an exaggerated gag. Well, that was a waste.

That was disappointing, but they still needed dinner, so he ventured back to the stove to start on Attempt #2. Clearly, he couldn't trust the internet to give him the right amount of time to cook them, so he went for Plan B: cook it until there's no possible way it's not safe.

The second burger was midway through its journey in the frying pan when the first came back to haunt him and sent him tossing the spatula aside and stumbling for the sink before he caught the edge of it and lost what little dinner he'd had so far. By the time he brought the last of the dry heaving under control, his second attempt was ruined as well, nothing more than a crispy lump stubbornly smoking behind him. Tonight was more of a disaster than most of the nights May cooked.

He really needed to give May more credit. Her meatloaves may always go up in flames, and her more creative attempts at foreign dishes might come out as spicy mush, but at least she'd never made him sick. The experience didn't leave him eager for a third attempt tonight. Takeout, it was.


	6. Chapter 6

**O2**

 _Making excuses to linger because they don't want to be left alone._

Staying at the tower was always a rush. Peter didn't get to do it often since the remaining Avengers spent most of their time at the compound now, but since Mr. Stark had yet to find a buyer that didn't back out on the deal—that had happened more than once in the few months it'd been on the market, surprisingly—the team came back to Manhattan sometimes, too tired post-battle to travel upstate or just homesick for their old base. Peter didn't know for sure how often they came back and didn't tell him, but they included him in at least one get-together a month, and that was beyond cool. Ned had actually squealed when Peter told him about the first time.

The compound was for training, and Peter was used to being put through brutal workouts and being quizzed on using his suit's features there. The tower was different. They probably did plenty of training when it had been the base, but now it was unofficially everyone's retreat. Vision would study whatever had caught his fancy, Natasha and Rhodey would binge their way through the team's to-watch list on Netflix, and Bruce and Tony were usually sequestered in their respective labs working on whatever they were interested in, whether it was useful to the team or not. When Peter came over, they'd mostly congregate around the living room with takeout and whatever show Natasha and Rhodey were in the middle of, trying to guess what they'd missed from earlier episodes and making up ridiculous fan theories about details that didn't matter. It was a transparent attempt on Mr. Stark's end to get Peter to take a break from patrolling for the night, but Peter loved it anyway.

This time, he was visiting after spraining his ankle, which kind of sucked. His enhanced healing meant he'd be back to normal in a day or two, but that knowledge didn't stop the uninvited pang of worry that came from being not so able-bodied. Sure, he could take on someone if push came to shove, but it would hurt like a bitch and he wouldn't be anywhere near as effective as normal. It wasn't even a sensible concern if he thought about it logically. He wasn't in the suit. No one was out there watching Peter Parker and waiting to attack him, and he wasn't patrolling tonight, so it wasn't like he planned on jumping in and drawing an attacker away from someone else. All the logic in the world couldn't cure him, though.

He felt safer snuggled against the couch cushions with Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Stark at his sides and the others spread throughout the room, but their movie marathon couldn't last all night. As much as he wanted that, the films eventually started to drag on for most of the others, and one by one they headed to bed or in Dr. Banner's case, back to the lab.

After a while, even Natasha yawned and strolled away to sleep, tossing the remote his way. It was just him and Mr. Stark now. It was way past his bedtime, and May had expected him to come home tonight, but he really didn't want to go. Maybe it was selfish, but he liked being surrounded by so many people who he trusted to help him if something happened.

"Um, Mr. Stark?" The man immediately turned away from the Disney movie that was close to ending. "Can I stay here tonight? I, uh, don't want to wake May up. She's probably asleep by now, right? She works in the morning, so it would be bad if I woke her up, and—"

"That's enough, kiddo. 'Course you can stay."

If that wasn't reassuring enough for him, falling asleep on the couch that night without Mr. Stark ever leaving his side was.


	7. Chapter 7

**O4**

 _Voice hitching as they speak._

This was a bad idea, no doubt about it.

Peter had been nagging Mr. Stark about coming to the workshop to improve Interrogation Mode for weeks, being told again and again to wait until the man had more time. He'd been afraid he'd annoyed Mr. Stark out of doing it completely, but yesterday's call from Happy proved him wrong. They'd agreed on a time to meet today, and that was that.

Until he woke up god-knows-when last night in time to leap out of bed and make a sprint for the toilet. He spent the rest of his night camped out on the bathroom floor, dozing on and off and unable to keep even antacids down.

He told himself the worst of it would be over by the afternoon, but it was dangerously close to four o'clock and he still couldn't completely shake the nausea. Not one to back out of an obligation, he moved a couple textbooks to his desk and tossed his suit into his backpack in their place. He wasn't in any immediate danger of puking again, so waiting for Happy at the curb seemed like the best choice. Either the man was frustrated easily in general, or Peter's existence frustrated him in particular. Whichever it was, Peter wanted to avoid angering him as much as possible.

Happy pulled up in front of his apartment right on time, and Peter mentally cheered at the fact that his expression bordered more on neutral than annoyed today. He settled in for the ride, skipping his seatbelt in favor of laying down along the backseat once they were moving. Napping would at least stop him from feeling the nausea and hopefully keep anything more from coming of it.

He woke up mid-retch, and if that wasn't the most disorienting thing he'd ever experienced, he didn't know what was. Without thinking much about where he was, he rolled in time to vomit with a strangled sound what little he had left into the floor. Miraculously, Happy hadn't noticed him yet.

Less fortunately, he _did_ notice when Peter pushed himself up and gagged fruitlessly. He'd never heard someone use the word "fuck" so copiously and creatively before. He cringed at the knowledge that he'd caused it. There was barely enough room to fit a car on the shoulder, but Happy immediately went for it anyway, and Peter gratefully tumbled out to finish what he'd started somewhere less expensive.

"I'm—" His voice hitched on another near-gag. "—sorry! I'm sorry!"

There wasn't anything to say to fix it. Happy probably didn't even hear him, too busy back at the car checking the damage to the backseat. His stomach slowly settled while he dreaded being enclosed in stony silence with Happy for another half hour.


	8. Chapter 8

**B1/Holiday Overindulgence**

 _Apologizing right before they pass out._

Winter break had always been a time for celebration, but Peter wanted to put it to good use this year. It was the first winter since he'd become Spider-Man, and those two straight weeks of free time were doing a lot of good for the community in his opinion.

His average patrol time is up to fifteen hours a day now, way more than the four or five max he can squeeze in the afternoon with school taking up his days and homework stealing his nights. He could probably cram in another hour or two if he wanted to, but this leaves him time to catch a hot shower at the end of the day, a couple meal breaks, and five or six hours of sleep at night. Physically, he's not feeling his best, but it's a small price to pay, especially knowing he'll go back to the usual grind with more time to rest and relax in a few more days. He's long lost track of the number of people he's helped since last Friday, but he knows it's a lot, and that's what counts.

It's the most productive he's ever been, and he thinks he's handling his schedule passably until he's invited to tag along as backup on an actual mission to get a sense of how the team handles bigger problems.

Backup isn't exactly the role he had in mind, but it's still exciting. He doesn't need any time to consider his answer, and then they're off.

The battle and the Avengers' teamwork are breathtaking, even as he's relegated to keeping his distance and evacuating civilians. The Black Widow especially is even more badass in person. He doesn't say that aloud though; it's happened before, and Mr. Stark replied with a mocking, "Language!" The team had laughed hard, but Peter had been the only one to notice his face fall after he had a second to soak in what he said. Apparently, he had bad memories with whatever that inside joke was.

They regroup on the ground after all the enemies are dispatched, and Peter finally gets to join them up close. He doesn't have long to enjoy it.

Everything sways suddenly. Or is that just him? He can vaguely acknowledge a sense of detachment and realizes he doesn't care so much about the details. The spinning is nauseating, and he feels a sort of tingle like something dripping from his head down to his chest, except when he reaches up to check, there's nothing there. Maybe his hand is numb and that's why he can't feel anything there despite _knowing_ there must be something. Blackness blooms in his vision, and after that he can't focus enough to tell what's going on.

He reaches out and latches onto the nearest arm. Whoever it is definitely spends too much time at the gym or is enhanced, but now isn't the time to figure that out.

"S'rry, I'm jus' gonna…" And that's all he gets out before everything fades to a muffled blackness and he feels himself start to drop.

The world is shifting semi-rhythmically and a little uncomfortably when he wakes up, which is unusual to say the least, considering beds don't tend to do any sort of moving, rhythmic or no. He lets it slide for the moment, content to catch some more sleep before he wakes up for real.

He has to get up and patrol soon, though. Make the most of his winter break and all. Only a few days left before cutting back on his hours by going back to the usual late afternoon patrol schedule.

Curiosity brings him to peel his eyes open, and on the plus side, his bed hasn't developed a penchant for moving while he was out. As a downside, Iron Man has a tight hold around his thighs and behind his back and is flying him who-knows-where, probably the tower if he wants to make an educated guess.

They've barely touched down on the roof before he's on his own two feet and being forcefully spun around to face Mr. Stark, still in the full Iron Man get-up.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt!?" he demands before anything else.

He's not hurt, but he takes a moment to take stock of himself. He's borderline exhausted and could really go for a few thousand calories to recover from Spider-Manning before meeting up with the team, but overall he feels okay-ish.

"I'm good, Mr. Stark." An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but Mr. Stark has complained about how often he apologizes so many times and he doesn't know if now is a good time for it. "Just tired? And starving?"

"Jesus, kid. One day, one of these lectures will finally stick in that stubborn brain of yours, and you'll stop scaring the shit out of me like this." He walks off, mockingly mumbling under his breath, but it's loud enough for Peter's enhanced hearing to pick up. "'You'll understand when you have a kid. I hope they're _just_ like you.' Fucking thanks, Dad."

How can he feel bad when Mr. Stark refers to him as his kid?


	9. Chapter 9

**B3**

 _Touching clothing and their hands come away bloody._

Peter should have seen it coming.

He was long used to the more minor, less insistent twinges of the spider sense throughout his days. Most felt like nothing compared to what he'd felt in the serious situations Spider-Man got into. When his baseline was "someone charging from behind with a knife," "a kid with his foot just a little too far out" didn't even register as dangerous anymore.

He was so distracted with the not-so-pleasant itch of his body still stitching back together a deep gash from last night that he didn't give a second thought to the faint tingle of warning as he was leaving his last period. Thanks to his lack of attention, he found himself suddenly strewn across the floor with an involuntary cry of surprise followed by Flash's mocking laughter.

The pain would normally be a show put on only for appearances, but combined with a still-healing wound, he didn't need to manufacture a thing this time. His hand jumped to the cut before he could think better of it, and it came back thoroughly bloodied. Just what he needed. Why couldn't he _think_ before he did these things? He risked a glance up, but it was clear Flash had already seen by the way he'd paled in the few seconds since Peter had last seen his face.

"Oh, shit!" was his initial reaction, followed by a string of more curses that make it obvious Flash thinks _he_ hurt him. "Fuck! Fuck… fuck! You can't tell! I can't afford to get kicked off the team!" He was insistent, but it made sense. Peter didn't know why Decathlon meant so much to Flash, but it did. They lapsed into silence when he didn't answer. Flash calmed down a little until he was a few baby steps below freaking out.

"What do I have to do to keep you quiet?" he asked, still a little panicked. He sounded more sincere than Peter had ever heard him.

"I don't want anything," he answered, more out of desire to avoid trouble than out of honesty. Of course, he'd love for Flash to finally leave him alone, but even if he _could_ get him to agree to that somehow, he'd just make someone else his main target, someone who might not be able to take it. He didn't want that on his conscience, not when he could avoid it by pretending Flash bothered him.

The pain was only a minor sting now, his healing factor already resuming its work, so he pushed himself up until he was standing again and checked for anything that might have flown from his backpack. All clear, he tried to walk off, but Flash moved to block his path.

"Just let me go home, Flash." It came out weaker than he'd intended, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was better to have Flash think he was weaker than he really was. Flash still looked upset. He probably thought Peter was going to rat him out, so he tacked on, "Your secret's safe with me. Now please leave me alone."

Flash let him go, and after a few days, life went almost back to the usual. And if Flash was scared to physically hurt anyone after that? It was worth the pain a hundred times over.


	10. Chapter 10

**I4/Hiding It**

 _Breathing hard to concentrate through the pain._

Hiding an injury as someone with a healing factor was easy in theory. Peter had dealt with plenty of scrapes and bruises in the line of duty, but that was the thing. They were usually _scrapes_ and _bruises_ , maybe a sort of deep cut at most, things anyone would be fine ignoring for the most part.

This was no cut. He'd misjudged his flight path and slammed hand-first into a rogue balcony when he was trying to swing to a rooftop. He'd pulled himself together enough to wrap things up and head home, but something was wrong.

His finger was dislocated, no question about it. He'd never had to deal with anything this complicated alone before. He'd broken a bone once, but it was a simple fracture, and keeping weight off it for a day had been enough for it to heal with no issue. No one had even known because May had worked a sixteen-hour shift that day and he'd pretended to be asleep when it needed a few hours more to heal after she returned.

This couldn't heal as it was. It was obviously not aligned the way it should be and stuck out awkwardly. Looking at it made him nauseous, but he had to do something. Thething was still coated in bruises, and he couldn't use that hand without a sharp pain that left him gasping and wincing involuntarily.

He wanted to get help from someone who knew what they were doing, but that was his Plan C. Plan A was ignoring it, but clearly that wasn't working. It looked just as bad as it had several hours ago. No doctor would see his healing factor and write it off, and he was finally making a good impression on the Avengers, so he really didn't want to ruin that by revealing his own incompetence at taking care of something that should be simple in his profession. He still couldn't believe he'd messed up so badly.

Plan B sent a thrill of anxiety down his spine, but it couldn't be that bad, right? He just needed to set it himself. People did that all the time. He'd seen it in a couple movies.

The fact that every website he used to research the process included a bold disclaimer to get professional help wasn't reassuring, but he'd gotten this far without crawling to the team. He could do this.

He had to fight against everything in his being telling him not to touch the finger, but he overcame it by squeezing his eyes tightly shut and reaching for it.

He was supposed to start with a slight pressure and build up from there, but he was only a couple seconds in and already breathing hard. He couldn't hold back a whimper, loud in the near silence of the apartment.

"Peter? You okay?" Crap. Aunt May wasn't supposed to be home yet. He jumped and instantly regretted it when the jerky movement went straight to his injured finger. This time, he yelped loudly in shock and let go without finishing what he'd started.

May didn't waste any time barging into his room, and her gaze fell on his bruised and swollen finger before he could hide it. She was smart; it didn't take her long to piece together what he was up to.

" _Peter Benjamin Parker!_ "


	11. Chapter 11

**G4**

 _A helpless look before they collapse._

Vigilantism really didn't pay off, at least not today, not for Peter.

He'd already missed too many school days thanks to the more serious injuries he wouldn't have been able to hide from his classmates, so he couldn't budget for another day off when he inevitably managed to catch the flu… because of course, he caught the flu. It wasn't like he had enough going on in his life already, right?

So, here he was, not digesting a single word of this monotone lecture on stoichiometry while he used what little brainpower he had left to host an internal one-sided debate on the stupidity of having a maximum number of annual sick days. He was tired and grumpy and boiling in his own skin, so sue him if he wasn't paying attention for once.

He shook himself out of his funk a little on his way to gym class, if only for Ned's sake. He didn't want to accidentally lash out at his best friend over a little headache and fever, so he told himself to suck it up and plastered on as much of a smile as he could for the series of warm-ups, which were way more challenging than usual if you asked him.

He couldn't tell if it was the unbearable heat from the fever or the exercise itself that brought the sheen of sweat over most of his body, but it was uncomfortable enough to leave him slowing himself down even more than usual. When the warm-ups were finally over, he took the chance to fan himself with his shirt, though it didn't help much.

Gym classes were easy and predictable. They'd go through the same old warm-ups and then rotate through an activity based on the weekday. Mondays came with some kind of organized sport, Tuesdays brought training for the annual Presidential Fitness Test, Wednesdays were for running laps, and so on. With his luck, of course he got sick on a Wednesday. There were only so many laps he could get away with walking before he was called out on it and forced to run.

Even genetically enhanced, there was only so much a body could take, and crossing the line from his fourth lap to his fifth crossed that boundary effortlessly. He never had the chance to notice the silenced call to his cell or the warning display on the wristband Mr. Stark had given him long ago. Suddenly, everyone else was making a commotion and he had time to glance over to see what was up and catch a helpless look on Mr. Stark's—Mr. Stark's!—face before first his vision and then his other senses were fading out all at once.

The tower was familiar territory by now. Unable to find a serious buyer, Mr. Stark had opted to keep it as a secondary base and an excuse to stay in Manhattan more often. Thanks to that, it was almost like a second home to Peter, considering he dropped by after school more often than not.

So, he wasn't confused about his surroundings when he woke up in the living quarters of the tower. What he _was_ confused about was how he'd gotten there. It was still way too light out for him to believe school was over, and it was concerning that he couldn't remember walking or webbing there.

It came back to him in a rush, leaving him burying his face in his hands. He'd fainted in front of _everyone_ , and even Mr. Stark had been there—the wristband? FRIDAY was integrated into it and could read his vitals, but there was no way they were bad enough to make Mr. Stark drop everything to pick him up, right?

"Feeling better, kid?" Mr. Stark was strangely good at sneaking up on him, but he was long used to it and was proud to say he only jumped a little this time.

"I'm good, Mr. Stark!" he answered instinctually. Catching himself, he actually thought about it and realized that he _did_ feel a lot better.

That wasn't going to stop him from having a lazy rest of the day with Mr. Stark, though.


	12. Chapter 12

**N2**

 _Collapsing or falling asleep and looking far younger._

It happened so fast, too fast to do anything but stare in awe.

Some enhanced guy—with a sob story that Tony didn't pay attention to—had had enough of hiding his abilities, but instead of using them for good or even just selfishly using them to benefit himself, something in him had snapped. He was hellbent on causing damage and wreaking havoc in general.

Tony hadn't expected the sheer strength and commitment to destruction the guy possessed and invited Peter without more than a few seconds of consideration. That was his first mistake.

His second was losing track of Spider-Man until a blur of red and blue caught his eye and he found the kid not even twenty feet away from the enemy, too exposed to close-range attacks, too unpracticed in _real_ combat. He was _supposed_ to keep his distance, but commands and instructions rarely worked well on Peter.

"Kid, get back! Long distance, remember!?" He could only hope the verbal reminder would bring him in line. Swooping in and forcibly removing him was an option, but it was entirely likely that the civilians he was covering would clam up and hide instead of finishing the evacuation if he flew away now.

Before he could hear a response, a low rumbling crescendoed until it was all he could make out and he had to bark an order to FRIDAY to decrease the audio input for his suit. Turning toward the now muffled sound, the worst-case scenario was confirmed. The building he'd last seen Peter and the target in was razed, a giant pile of rubble in its place, and it was all he could do to keep breathing.

"Peter!" he called into his comm. No response. "Come on, kid! I need an answer!"

He had the presence of mind to yell over his shoulder to instruct the nearest civilians to keep going on their own while the attacker was down, but he didn't stick around to see if they listened. He was unsteady on his feet as he staggered to the remains of the building. He was only a few feet away when Peter's voice came over the comm, panicked but alive, and that was what mattered.

He couldn't make out what Peter was saying, his voice too weak to transmit properly, but if he could get a signal from the comm, that meant FRIDAY could pinpoint his location.

FRIDAY was nothing if not efficient, and soon he knew where to dig to free the kid the fastest, but it wasn't fast enough. He couldn't do it alone, not to the backdrop of Peter's soft sobs, not when the kid sounded more like a child than ever before. He'd already had to waste precious seconds fumbling to wipe the beginnings of tears from his eyes with the massive Iron Man gauntlets. He paused long enough to phone for help, but then he was right back to work, tunneling as fast as he could in a suit that was a little too clunky to be suited for it.

At some point, the sobs died down into mere sniffles and Peter came to, more coherent than before.

"Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"I c-can't feel my arms? Is that o…" he trailed off for a few seconds too long before picking up where he stopped. "…Okay?"

"You're gonna be fine, kid." He didn't know if he believed that himself. At least he kept the waver out of his voice thanks to years of practice with stockholders. "Just stay calm and I'll get you out in no time."

Help arrived, and rubble moved faster, rocks being picked up for the barest of seconds before being tossed aside indiscriminately. One hand was finally exposed, and Tony stopped doing his part in digging at the concrete, more focused on latching onto what he had and reassuring Peter he was there.

He shook himself when he realized his limbs were probably still too numb to feel much of anything.

"I know you can't feel it, but I promise I'm holding your hand."

The barest twitch of the hand was his response. All that came through his headpiece was an exhausted hum, but it was enough. He would get through this. They would get through this.

A/N: Yes, I took this prompt slightly liberally, but I feel like it still fits the spirit.


	13. Chapter 13

**G3**

 _Looking unusually ruffled—messy hair, bags under their eyes._

Peter was tired. Or… tired wasn't a strong enough word. He was exhausted. He was falling asleep at his desk and jerking out of it too often to keep track of how many times it'd happened.

He'd ruined his streak of getting at least seven hours of sleep a night sometime last week, though he couldn't remember when exactly that was anymore. He just knew he'd slipped up one night and had completely fallen off the bandwagon since. He definitely got three hours last night, but that's the only recent night he's completely sure about, and he can already feel it in his bones that he was going to forget that number come tomorrow too.

It was Friday, one of the busiest days for crime, but he'd already made the nerve-wracking decision to prioritize Parker over Spider-Man for once. He hadn't even brought his suit with him to school today, so there wasn't any temptation for a quick patrol before he went home to his warm, comfy bed and didn't surface for hours.

Only Happy dashed that plan. His car stood out in front of the school, way too nice compared to the students' and parents' cars parked around it. Peter debated pretending not to see it—he was _that_ tired—but then Happy caught his eye, and it was too late to hide.

At least he got a little sleep on the impromptu ride, though apparently not enough to avoid notice.

"You look like you haven't slept in days," Mr. Stark observed, a little too close to the mark for comfort. There wasn't much he could do to hide the eye bags, but he'd put in the effort to dress reasonably well and comb his hair before school. Both of those things were ruined on the ride over, sleep making his hair stick up in every conceivable direction and wrinkling his clothes too thoroughly to fix on his own. "You feeling okay?"

He wasn't, but there was no need to drag Mr. Stark into it. It felt like he never saw the man. He wasn't ruining today by admitting he maybe-kind-of-really needed some sleep.

"Yep, all good, Mr. Stark!"

He was a better actor than he'd thought. Mr. Stark dropped the question and put him to work.

He didn't realize he was running completely on autopilot until a sound startled him out of his haze. He blearily looked up and saw that three hours had gone by. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to be doing. Whatever he had in progress at his workstation didn't look like anything Mr. Stark would've asked him to do.

It turned out the sound he'd heard had been Mr. Stark trying to grab his attention. He heard his suggestion to take a dinner break the second time and hurriedly agreed, eager to get away from equipment that was potentially dangerous to someone as out of it as he'd been just one minute ago.

It came to a head when he fell asleep in the dining room, waking up to a face-full of pasta. There was no hiding that. Mr. Stark was making a weird face, and Peter was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh at his alfredo-covered face.

"Kid, you've been a mess today, but _this_ takes the cake. I've given you plenty of time to speak up, so let's just get this on the table. Leave the 'suffer through it' thing to me. It doesn't suit you. At all. When something's up with you, I need to know, Pete. That's part of being a team: open communication. You got that?"

He managed a sheepish nod.

"Good. Now hold still. Your aunt and Happy will _love_ this pic."

The hidden smirk was out in full force now. Peter groaned.


	14. Chapter 14

**I5**

 _Becoming unusually clumsy and fumbling simple tasks._

Peter was late, and that was concerning. Of all the people Tony had worked with, superpowers or no, he was by far the most punctual. In fact, despite thoroughly wracking his brain while he waited a few extra minutes, he couldn't come up with one time he'd ever been late to anything scheduled.

A few extra minutes turned into ten minutes turned into half an hour before he gave up on his intern showing up. Kid probably just forgot, but to be safe he dialed his aunt's number to check in.

It went straight to voicemail. Worry bloomed in his chest, not that he'd ever admit it. Probably he'd hear back and find out he was just napping or finally got a date. He wasn't willing to risk Peter's life on that assumption, though, so he shut down his personal office for the day and headed for an apartment in Queens.

May answered the door after two knocks. Peter was directly in sight from the doorway, strewn across the couch and seeming at one with the cushions. For a moment, he let himself believe the kid just forgot for once and got sucked into a TV show or something. That was shattered when he shoved himself off the couch, tumbled into the floor, and attempted a mad dash that was more of a series of stumbles out of the room without any acknowledgement of Tony and May at the front door. He heard harsh retching a moment later and winced in sympathy, no doubts left as to why he never showed up at the tower.

The wincing faded away and was replaced with outright concern when the episode dragged on seemingly forever. His aunt didn't make a move to join him. She must have seen Tony's worry because she jumped into some kind of Mother Mode where she was overly soft-voiced and gentle, only it wasn't toward Peter. It was aimed at him.

"Don't worry about it," she soothed. "It's just a bug. He bounces back from these easy peasy."

"Should he be alone like that, though?" It was bizarre to hear concern in his own voice without being in a life-or-death hostage situation. He didn't want to call the feeling parental, but god dammit, it was.

"Oh, yeah, no worries. Pete'll let me know if he needs anything. I lucked into getting the easiest sick kid ever. Guess you did too now." She stepped back as if to invite him in while he was still reeling from the implication. He took the offer, following her to wait on the far end of the couch, only slightly encroaching on the kid's impressive nest of blankets and decorative pillows. Eventually, the painful-sounding heaving tapered off and Peter shuffled his way back to the couch, looking more worn out and shaky than he did after any of his training missions. He jumped when he looked up.

"Mr. Stark! What are you doing here?"

"What, I can't visit my favorite intern?" he joked with a pause. "You never showed. I was just making sure you weren't dead in a ditch."

He patted the space on the couch next to him. Did the kid even want him to be here? Years of practice made it second nature to keep the indecision out of his expression but it remained planted firmly in his thoughts.

Instead of laying back down like earlier, Peter shifted closer until his head was almost in his lap. Tony tensed in surprise—though what did he expect? Peter was _the_ most touchy-feely person—but it didn't last long when he saw how much more comfortable he seemed. He could get used to this… for Peter, anyway.

May settled in last and received the great honor of having her thighs used as a prop for two smelly teenage boy feet. To Tony, it was a sign of how close the two really were that she didn't think twice about it. He didn't know if he could be that selflessly strong if their positions were reversed.

Tony didn't make a move to leave, and neither of the Parkers asked him to. He used it as a chance to see what Spider-Man was like when he _wasn't_ Spider-Man, realizing he really didn't know the boy behind the mask very well at all.

The Hallmark movie was doing a much better job of holding May's attention than Peter's. She was enraptured while Peter was alternating between actually paying attention to the overly cheesy plot and letting his eyes scan over the rest of the living room, mostly lingering on a section of the wall full of photos of the two Parkers and a man Tony had never seen and the bit of skyline outside the only window.

He dozed through the climax, and that was such an accurate representation of Tony's opinion of the movie that he couldn't hold back a chuckle that turned both Parkers' heads, one stare much sleepier and less amused than the other. Not wanting to bash something the hot aunt liked, he never did explain himself.

The movie was almost over when Peter reached out for the glass of water previously left untouched and sent it hurtling to the floor with a louder smash than he'd expect from such a thin glass. The kid's first instinct was to apologize to his aunt, but all three of them knew he was too weak to do anything about it. Tony jumped at the chance to stop paying attention to the frankly awful movie and shifted Peter just enough to get off the couch, crouch down, and start collecting shards of glass from the wooden floor.

By the time he was finished tossing the glass into the kitchen trash, Peter was strewn out, sound asleep again. There was no way to rejoin the fray without moving him, and something in his heart clenched at that prospect, so he said his hushed goodnights with the feeling that he almost knew his intern now.


	15. Chapter 15

**I1**

 _Eyes become unfocused._

Peter's acting weird.

He's not practically vibrating in the car seat or babbling about the newest version of the web fluid formula or shoving photos he took from twenty stories up in his face. He's been quiet and almost moody since Tony picked him up from school. When he risks a side glance at a red light, he's not even _smiling_ , which is so quintessentially Peter that he actually voices his concern.

"You're acting weird. What's up?"

"Huh?" Peter finally turns to look at him instead of staring listlessly out the window. "Oh, I'm fine… good. Great!"

He laughs at the kid fumbling for words and lets it go. Something probably happened at school, but if Tony could tear him out of it just by asking if he's okay, it can't be that bad.

Peter doesn't warm up enough to bring on the usual chatter, though, so Tony nudges the radio up a few notches to have something to listen to. He'll never say it aloud, but he almost misses the jittery, chatty Peter already.

Tony isn't one to question his own decisions. Others'? Absolutely. But never his own. He just can't shake the feeling that something more is wrong with the kid and can't completely drop the matter. He keeps it to himself for the rest of the trip. He's not going to risk speaking up and sounding like a parent— _shudder_ —only to find out it's nothing, like he logically knows it will be.

He only notices how pale the kid is after they reach the lobby of the tower and he turns around to ask a question only to find the rest of the kid's face flushed a soft red that screams anything but "healthy kid." Without thinking twice, he raises his hand to cup his forehead only to find it way too hot for the kid to be walking around the tower.

He only realizes he's acting too close to his supposed intern when a few people in the lobby start whispering. He drops the hand like he's been burned.

"Okay, you're not working today." He touches Peter long enough to turn him to face the entrance they just passed through and then drops his hands again, not eager to spark more rumors from his employees. "Your aunt home?"

Peter doesn't answer. He stares into space without acknowledging that he's been manhandled or addressed, but he seems steady enough on his feet so Tony wraps an arm over his shoulders and guides him outside in silence. The unawareness reaffirms his decision to call off today.

It looks like he's in for an afternoon of babysitting his kind-of-sort-of kid.


	16. Chapter 16

**I2**

 _Touching their head and feeling their_ _own_ _temperature rise._

It was a long day of field training with the Avengers' first—and to date, only—member-in-training, and Tony had a newfound respect for the kid, not that he'd said so. His patrols were nothing to laugh at.

In all honestly, Tony had given his schedule a quick once-over this morning, seen nothing important enough to actually worry about, and texted the kid an offer to train in hopes of getting out and having a little entertainment for the afternoon. Peter had been ecstatic, practically bouncing off the walls when Tony landed outside Midtown Tech in full hero-ing attire. He'd had to sneak off to change, dodging a crowd of screaming teens in the process, but the bubbly excitement never wavered.

He'd called it "training," but Peter turned out to be the one who informally set their itinerary, so a couple hours of bonding became an entire night of tracking down and apprehending small-time criminals and helping little old ladies and children. Tony was exhausted by the second hour, but he pushed on until even the kid's swinging was lethargic and his reactions were too slow to be any help in a fight. He had a hunch that the kid wasn't going to let himself be the one to end the outing, so for both of their sakes, he did the honors.

"Alright, back to the ground now," he instructed. He'd never gone out in any of the suits long enough to get tired of them in all his nine years, but tonight was putting that to the test. Even with the solid ground of the roof they paused on, the lingering memory of airborne gravity was wreaking hell on his balance. "Happy's meeting us in T-minus ten minutes, and we both need a break until then."

He expected a little pushback, but for once Peter kept quiet and simply obeyed. Weirder still, he didn't start any conversation whatsoever during their wait, just rested his weight against the building they'd previously been on top of and listened to the sounds of the city night. He supposed even overly energetic kids could get tired too, but that knowledge didn't make the mixture of complete and total silence and Peter Parker feel right.

Happy overdelivered as usual, showing up with four minutes still on the clock, and Tony guided his Avenger-in-training to the backseat after he hesitated a second too long.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." It was barely a murmur, but Tony heard it from across the seat anyway.

There was no way to know what the kid was thanking him for. A shoulder to lean on to get into the car? The ride home? Spending today together? Peter was undeniably biased toward overexplaining himself, but apparently Tony just needed to get him good and tired to make that attitude disappear. A detailed explanation didn't come, so he kept it general.

"Any time, kiddo."

It took less than a minute before Happy questioningly met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, which was comforting in an odd way. If even Happy could tell something was off, at least that meant Tony wasn't getting soft and sensing things that weren't there.

The reigning explanation of simple exhaustion was abandoned when the kid all but passed out against his side, his head coming to rest against Tony's neck for practically no time before he felt the unnatural heat burning against his skin.

Worry and relief battled in his mind. It helped to have an explanation for the behavior change, but he'd had to remove his own suit before catching their ride and couldn't have FRIDAY check how serious the fever was in the meantime.

"Change of plans," he muttered as quietly as he could to Happy outside the Parkers' apartment. "I'm sticking around with him until I can pass him off to his aunt."

He might not be _good_ with kids, but he knew a sixteen-year-old with a fever could take care of himself, even a sixteen-year-old as reckless as Peter could be. So he was worried for his kid, sue him. He'd keep his fingers crossed that no one would realize _the_ Tony Stark was getting soft, but if worst came to worst, Peter was worth the ribbing he'd get.


	17. Chapter 17

**G5**

 _Needing to pause and close their eyes because they're lightheaded, exhausted, or have a bad headache._

Peter wakes up in something suspiciously like the fight or flight mode he's well used to from his extracurricular activities and doesn't have time to wonder why before he's two heaves in and staring uncomprehendingly at an overwhelming mess on his bedroom floor.

He's had worse happen to him, but this is a far cry from his best, and he's quietly grateful no one is around to see him struggling to even extract himself from his bedsheets. Forget standing straight without shivering against the obvious fever; it was a small victory to have his legs could support him at all.

Well, that's just great.

His stomach settles almost immediately, which is nice and all, but it doesn't undo the damage to the floor. He huffs and carefully pads to the door, whipping it fast through the first two-thirds of its swing and then slowing down for the final arc to stop it from creaking.

He has better night vision since the spider bite, so it's nothing to sneak into the kitchen and grab the roll of paper towels. After a moment of consideration, he fills a bowl with water and balances that in his other hand.

There's only one— _one_ —squeaky floorboard between the kitchen and his room, and it slips his mind until the sound cracks the silence of the apartment. He moves the offending foot in a rush, sucks a breath in, and focuses his hearing on May's room.

Nothing. Good. He doesn't want to a) recount the story or b) keep her up all night when she has work in the morning. He wavers and sloshes some of the water on the floor when he unintentionally pauses and closes his eyes mid-step to keep the room from swaying, but he ultimately makes it to his room more or less intact.

Scrubbing vomit off the floor seems particularly disgusting now that he's directly faced with it, but he's _fifteen_ , too old to leave May to clean up after him, even if he's sick. If it's gross for him to clean up after himself, it has to be even worse for her, so nope. Not this time. He's going to be responsible and clean up after himself and not tell anyone else how much cringing is involved in the process.

Later, he'll blame it on the fever, but he makes it all of two minutes before he's sniffling and then outright sobbing on the floor, having made almost no progress on the mess beyond watering it down and accidentally spreading it even further.

The next thing he knows, there are footsteps behind him and he's not alone anymore.

"Oh, you poor thing," comes from his right, and then he can hear May shushing him and he realizes how loudly he was crying, and he re-realizes he's too old for any of this and cries harder in a pathetic feedback loop until there are no tears left and he's leaning exhausted against May.

He's exhausted enough to sleep right there, mess and all, but his aunt nudges him until he's standing on shaky legs and falling back down into his bed with the command to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

**N5**

 _Head lolling as they no longer have the strength to hold it up._

Can't any of his "practice" missions with the Avengers ever go well?

This shouldn't be even the slightest bit hard. There wasn't an alien invasion or some sinister mastermind out to harm New York City. There was no big bad guy to fight. It was just a fire that had gotten out of control before all the people could be evacuated. Mr. Stark hadn't even sent half the team to join them; it was only them and Captain America. No biggie (except to his inner fanboy).

Except it's going a lot worse than it had in the rushed planning session.

It's usually low effort to rescue a civilian from pretty much any situation, doable in thirty seconds or so, barring special circumstances. Keyword: _usually_. It helps to be in perfect health for missions, but maybe that's asking too much. He hasn't been able to shake the fever he woke up with, but he's not like _sick_ or anything. Some shakes and the occasional near-suffocating heat, but nothing too extreme for Spider-Man.

His suit filters the smoke so he isn't breathing it in, but it still inconveniences him by wiping out his vision past the foot or so in front of him, and Karen's having trouble detecting heat signatures thanks to the fire's proximity to the remaining people.

To put it mildly, he's _not_ impressing Mr. Stark or Mr. Rogers whatsoever… but he's not doing so badly that he can imagine removing himself from the mission before it's over. Sure, he's unintentionally taking his sweet time, but this is important and he's handling things well enough. _Slow going is better than no going_ , he borderline deliriously repeats to himself as he drops two people off outside the building and swings back in for the next two.

It's getting harder to find anyone, whether that's because they're taking cover from falling debris or because he's found everyone there is to find, but the firemen haven't confirmed that the employees are all accounted for yet, so he sprints deeper into the building, closer to the still spreading fire.

His solo patrols are never so life-or-death, and the stress is catching up with him. He can almost feel his heart clench in fear for anyone who might be left, but he can't see or hear any stragglers, and it's getting too hot for comfort. He makes his way toward the exit empty-handed, hoping to be told that no one is missing once he's outside.

One second, he's close to the exit, so close he can feel the breeze already cooling his overheated skin through the thick suit.

The next thing he knows, he's half-sprawled, half-sitting on the concrete too far from the burning building, and he's decidedly not happy about it. He can't remember getting so far from the action, but no one else is close enough to blame for moving him while he spaced out. Even from his new position planted firmly on the ground, the landscape is stubbornly swaying in his vision. The black spots crowding his vision don't bode well for his state of consciousness in the near-future.

With his whole body's lack of cooperation, it's more of a struggle to bring his head between his knees than he'd like. It seems like his neck has a mind of its own at this point, but he gets there eventually, ignoring the sounds of employees and clients panicking and reuniting in the background.

He has a moment to hope he's saved himself the embarrassment of passing out in front of the others before he's drifting, not unconscious but not fully present either. His thoughts are fuzzy and he keeps catching himself forgetting and suddenly re-remembering where he is and what he's supposed to be doing. It might be scary if he didn't feel so detached from reality.

That's the last conscious thought he has.

His aching head is the unwanted initial tip-off that he's back in reality. A large part of him wants to ignore it and go back to sleep, but a smaller part is there to remind him that he wasn't sleeping and that sleeping during a mission was a patently bad idea.

He doesn't even notice the hand on his chest until he tries to flip onto his back and sit up and is gently pushed back to the ground instead.

When he peels his eyes open, he's surprised to find Captain America on his knees and hovering the same way he remembers Uncle Ben doing one day when he was young and sick while May was at work. And ouch, that memory stings more than he'd like.

"Are you with me now, Spider-Man?"

The name is a reminder that civilians are close, closer than he expects considering how busy they'd been panicking about their coworkers before.

"Yeah," is all he's willing to answer with. Even that one word is exhausting. Something happened, and he should ask, but…

"Stay down a minute while Tony finishes up, okay? You had a seizure and FRIDAY can't find anything in your medical history to explain it, so you need a trip to the med bay before anything else."

For his part, Mr. Rogers seems calm. Then again, he's not the one who apparently had a seizure in front of two hundred people, give or take a few.

Maybe he should outwardly react. Maybe it's a waste of his dwindling energy. A nap right there on the concrete sounds like a better prospect. He's too tired to debate himself on it.

Nap now, worry later.


	19. Chapter 19

**B2**

 _Becoming giggly from blood loss or high fever._

Tony Stark was eternally busy, always in the middle of some engineering breakthrough, big or small, no matter the time of day. Even sleep couldn't keep him away from work for long.

Or at least, that was what he liked the general public to believe. In reality, the only "breakthrough" the ping of his phone notification interrupted was a low-key Saturday night viewing of _Under the Tuscan Sun_ with Pepper.

Saturday was their one night of the week to truly relax—no exceptions under direct order from Pepper—so he lazed a little, content with his head pillowed in Pepper's lap and his legs stretched to take up most of the couch. He gave himself a minute before he propped himself up just far enough to slip his phone from the coffee table. FRIDAY usually routed his texts through the speaker system, but he'd disabled it for the duration of the movie and he wasn't about to piss Pepper off by changing that now.

He registered the nickname _Spider-kid_ before the text itself slapped him in the face.

 _hey mr. stark is a stab wound to the side dangerous? asking for a friend_

He sucked in an involuntary sharp breath. _Jesus._ This kid would be the death of him.

 _A friend? What friend?_

A few minutes passed as he stared at the screen with bated breath, completely tuning out the movie and a question from Pepper.

 _my kidney_

…

 _Did you text me just so you could make that joke?_

The reply was faster this time, but he was already off the couch, calling his suit, and heading for the roof when his phone chimed with the text.

 _yeah_

He really hated this kid. Of all the superheroes he could've decided to mentor, he _had_ to choose Peter "no self-preservation instincts" Parker. He pulled up the Spider-suit's tracking system and set his course before the last text came through.

 _actually i'm bleeding out help me please_

The message scrolled across his HUD before he hastily commanded FRIDAY to resume her text-to-voice function, but nothing else came through during his flight.

Years of practice made wiping the concern from his face so simple he barely had to think about it. He was more focused on touching down and doing a hurried three-sixty to let FRIDAY find and highlight heat signatures. There was only one close enough to be right.

The kid was curled up on the ground looking less like a superhero than Tony had ever seen him—one hand pressed hard against his side and his mask nowhere to be seen—but he still had the gall to giggle when Tony kneeled in front of him, immediately scanning for injuries. True to his word, there was a small stab wound on his left side and a worrying puddle of blood on the concrete, but it looked like he'd avoided any other major damage.

"Wow," he marveled through another bout of laughter, "Iron Man is here! I can't believe _Iron Man_ came to see _me_!"

Tony was long used to filtering his emotions, but the unintentional jab went deeper than he knew was possible. Did he really spend so little time with his almost-kid that he thought it was a big deal to be in the same room together?

In the end, there was nothing to do but shrug it off before it was obvious anything was wrong. Just another thing to mull over in the "later" that never seemed to come.

" _Iron Man_ ," he repeated with the same emphasis, "came to rescue _someone_ who can't seem to take basic care of himself."

Any conversation with a kid delirious from blood loss was going nowhere fast, so he headed off any response by scooping up the problem of the evening and launching from the ground once more.

God forbid he ever add anyone to the team who _didn't_ jump headfirst into dangerous situations with no more protection than a thin layer of spandex.


	20. Chapter 20

**I3**

 _Shivering long after everyone else has stopped._

When Mr. Stark showed up at Peter's front door standing uncomfortably close to a bearded stranger and invited him on a mission—i.e. offered to let him watch from the sidelines while they did all the dangerous work—he didn't think twice about it. He was in his suit and out the door in thirty seconds flat. Too bad nobody mentioned they were going to the middle of what may or may not be Antarctica.

Joking aside, he had no idea where they were, just that it was unbelievably cold and could be literally _any_ distance from home because beard-y cape guy—who eventually introduced himself as Dr. Strange—took them through a _magic_ _portal_. One second, they were outside his apartment door, and the next, they were wherever _here_ was. This was the weirdest day of his life and he may or may not be in mild shock, but in a good way.

He didn't quite know whether to be excited or let down. Pros: it was an easy mission, not something he had to worry about messing up. It was a response to a rumored HYDRA hideout, but today was only supposed to be an initial observation without any real action. Cons: this was Black Widow's expertise, and normally Hawkeye would be next in line for any sort of spying-type mission, but both of them had been busy with something or other that Mr. Stark wouldn't go into. So he wasn't actually anyone's first pick, and this was basically a pity invite. That was a little disappointing, but it was still a mission, so he tried not to let logic drag his spirit down.

Just a few minutes into their trek—apparently, they couldn't land too close with the risk of the agents witnessing them suddenly popping into existence—he was shivering even with the heater running full blast. Karen was doing her best, but it didn't feel like enough. He couldn't tell if he was just being weak—likely, considering Mr. Stark and Dr. Strange weren't complaining or even shivering yet—or if the spider powers were making the temperature seem worse than it was—also likely, based on the fact that he consistently felt colder than Ned did ever since getting the powers. It was too late to back out now, but he couldn't help feeling annoyed that Mr. Stark didn't warn him about the temperature difference ahead of time.

The cold was leeching away all of his coordination, and it took everything in him to follow vaguely in the men's tracks. Even then, most of his footsteps kept falling left or right of his target so that he stepped into virgin snow each time and had to ceaselessly feel the chill of it against his ankles and calves.

At least Mr. Stark was having a good time… Peter thought he was, anyway. He and Dr. Strange were talking animatedly several paces ahead of him. It was impossible to overhear the conversation even with the minimal distance, but neither man looked upset, and mid-mission, that was usually a good sign. He'd smile at the sight if he weren't so tired that smiling on top of walking in a straight-ish line sounded next to impossible. It was refreshing to see Mr. Stark on friendly terms with someone, though. Peter didn't get to see that happen much.

Mr. Stark's instructions were simple: engage reconnaissance mode and stay still. Peter caught that, but his mind wandered soon after.

At one point, he shook himself out of an impromptu nap. Foreign accents rushed over him through Karen's speakers, and he tuned out again, but he stayed awake.

By the end of the session, he couldn't remember a word of what he'd heard. Honestly, it was a good thing he was just tagging along because he had no clue whether or not they were HYDRA agents. Luckily, Mr. Stark didn't seem interested in quizzing him on it. Instead, he fell into another conversation with cape guy during the hike out.

Breathing didn't come easily here. It felt like his lungs were freezing over with every breath he took, burning with the chill, and he couldn't get enough oxygen no matter how hard he struggled.

They didn't slow down until Peter managed to stumble headfirst into a tree with an involuntary, "Owwww…"

Dr. Strange hung back, but Mr. Stark materialized by his side in an instant and was pawing at Peter's head before he fully understood what happened. Peter was on autopilot as they ran through the usual is-Peter-concussed procedure, and Mr. Stark didn't look convinced when he snapped back to reality.

"I don't like the slur, Pete," was his conclusion. "We're hitting up the med bay before I send you home."

He clocked out again, only vaguely aware of his environment until he felt the sudden temperature change on the other side of the magic portal. The cold clung to him like it would never leave and he couldn't hold back shivers, but the compound was a huge step up from the mysterious tundra.

He didn't notice his eyes closing until he heard fingers snapping in front of him.

"I know you're tired, but how about you get through this first?"

Peter didn't answer, but he followed along with all of Dr. Strange's requests and medical tests even though he felt only flimsily attached to reality while he went through the motions.

He willed himself to focus more at Mr. Stark's unexpected sigh of relief and Dr. Strange repeating to him that they'd caught the hypothermia relatively early. Apparently, they should all be concerned that he'd developed hypothermia in their conditions—and the look in Mr. Stark's eye said they _would_ be discussing and researching it for a long, long time—but on the bright side, he'd recover easily enough with nothing more than warm drinks and heated blankets.

At the rate they were going, weekly movie nights at the tower were going to be _a thing_ in no time.


	21. Chapter 21

**N1**

 _Spacing out during a conversation while they're speaking and needing to regain focus._

Peter had a healing factor, and while it was annoying to be hit with colds hard and fast, he got over them way faster than a normal person. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself on the way out the door.

May didn't understand that, though, so she'd freaked when he'd woken up sicker than any cold used to make him and made the mistake of telling her at breakfast. She'd jumped into mom mode before he could disarm her, and before he knew it, she'd somehow managed to con _Mr. Stark_ into _babysitting_ him for the day instead of letting him handle a little fever at school.

He couldn't completely hold it against her. They only really had each other left, and he could see himself reacting similarly if she was so sick, but he couldn't afford to go along with it. It just wasn't possible; the timing was wrong. Calling out sick and missing _another_ decathlon competition would put him on thin ice with the team if it didn't get him booted first. Plus, it wasn't even a big deal. He'd most likely be fully recovered by lunch.

That was all the thinking he needed before he pulled a fast one with his babysitter. He stuttered all the way through his request for "Tony" to pick up orange juice, but he'd fallen for it anyway. The name slid off his tongue weirdly—too informal and friendly for someone he admired and who had over thirty years advantage on him—but it was the man's easiest weakness to exploit without feeling too guilty about doing so.

He gave Mr. Stark sixty seconds of distance before he slipped out the window and took the long way out of the neighborhood to avoid the closest convenience store.

That was what led him here. He'd had to muffle several rounds of coughing into his sleeve during the bus trip to Albany, and he had several moments of severe regret over not grabbing any Tylenol on the way out the door (or window, so to speak), but overall, things were going great. No one on the team was mad at him beyond Flash's usual hang ups, and Mr. Stark hadn't hunted him down.

Or at least no one was mad until the competition started.

The fever was probably to blame, but he couldn't stay focused on the questions. He'd fought it by buzzing to answer anyway, but that had led to way too many uncomfortable silences from the audience while he gathered his thoughts after being given the floor.

He'd managed to answer four of the ten or eleven questions he volunteered for without running out of time and sacrificing the point to the other team. No one looked happy with him, but MJ was downright _livid_ after only one round.

"That's _enough_ from you," she berated him. "I don't know what's going on here, but you throwing the match? It's bullshit! You need to step down and let Flash take over or you're off the team. Permanently."

He'd never seen MJ so explosively angry. They weren't close, but he'd seen her pissed before. It was a terrifying show of icy criticism, delivered with barely a hint of emotion.

This was different. He'd _really_ made her angry, and he couldn't fix it today. It was too much… Everything was too much. He still felt awful and he had a headache and even coughing hurt and he betrayed both May's and Mr. Stark's trust and now MJ hated him too and it was all _too much_.

He knew better than to stick with the team after that, not while his failure was still fresh in everyone's minds. Ned might have been an understanding ear, but _he_ hadn't gotten kicked out of the rest of the day's rounds, so he was busy.

It wasn't his last resort, but a secluded bathroom stall wasn't his first preference either. It was what he was stuck with, though, because screw it. He felt bad, the whole day was going horribly, and if he wanted to cry in a deserted bathroom for a few minutes, he damn well would.

"I knew I shouldn't have left you."

Peter jumped at the voice before he thought to scrub the tear tracks from his face, but it was already too late to hide. He slowly turned to find Mr. Stark fully suited up with only his face visible standing next to the door. He laughed and reached for the emotion needed for proper puppy eyes in a weak attempt to charm his way out of a thorough chewing out from both Mr. Stark and probably Aunt May too.

"Uhhh, hi, Mr. Stark! Weird meeting you here!"

"Yeah, no, it's not."

 _Shit._ He definitely wasn't disarmed by the puppy eyes this time. Then again, why should anything Peter did convince him after he already tricked him once today? He was _the worst_.

"You're not the worst, kid." Oh. He'd always thought the idea of accidentally speaking thoughts aloud was laughably out of touch with reality, but that was just what he needed to top off the day, wasn't it?

"A pain in my ass? Absolutely. But not the worst."

That simple forgiveness combined with the lingering fever was all he needed to break down in tears again. So much for handling himself.


	22. Chapter 22

**G2**

 _Another character spots their hands shaking, so they hide them._

Peter could usually spot an oncoming illness from a mile away, an unexpected and not-super-useful side effect of the spider senses that had taken a long time for him to notice.

Or maybe he didn't realize for so long because it wasn't completely accurate. It certainly wasn't today.

He woke up feeling great (with a new sleep record for the month too: a full nine hours for the night), finished school with no more struggle than the norm (barring one class where he blurted out an answer and went on an in-depth tangent before realizing he'd misheard the question in the first place), and even spent a perfectly enjoyable hour at Ned's place after decathlon practice was cancelled last minute. It was only now that he was a few blocks from home that he felt off.

Nothing _major_ was wrong as far as he could tell. He didn't have the telltale chills of a fever or the MIA appetite that preceded many a day off from school and patrol. Soreness was settling in his muscles, disproportionate to the little effort he'd put forth in gym class, but it was at the "minor inconvenience" level. He might have to take the web-slinging a little slower to accommodate it, but it wasn't a big deal. Patrol might run a little short for the night, but he had no reason to skip it completely.

That decision in mind, he finished the walk to his apartment, opting for the elevator for once—not a choice for the faint-hearted with its reputation of failing once a week at minimum—and leaning against the back wall for support on the slow ride to the seventh floor.

"I'm home!" he called out to a possibly empty apartment. May's schedule was beyond irregular lately thanks to two of the other nurses suddenly quitting with no notice, so there was never any telling if she was home unless he thought to text her on the walk there.

"Welcome back!" May's answer was muffled from behind her closed bedroom door, and he heard the clack of the door's catch as she opened it a second later.

They had their routine down pat after weeks of practice. On occasion, they'd mix it up a little, but a typical school day ended with Peter coming home, changing into the suit, and starting his homework at the kitchen island or the coffee table. With rare exceptions, Peter was ravenous after school and May would go to work on a Spider-Man sized snack while he scribbled away at his easiest homework problems.

Then came the checking in process: did he have any major assignments left to finish? Which route was he taking? What time did he plan on wrapping up? On short days, was he coming straight home or stopping somewhere else?

There was a half hour of required socializing—and yes, May _did_ set a timer for it—while he chipped away at his snack. He'd protested that rule the first few times, but he appreciated it more now as a way to decompress and forget any school stresses before he engaged in risky acrobatics and occasional fighting. The whole process cut down his free time, but it made May feel better.

The routine started as always, but it felt wrong almost immediately.

He had five calculus problems to do, and he should've been able to knock them out easily, but his brain felt foggy. Any grasp he had on the chain rule was long gone, and he couldn't even blame it on the difficulty of calculus. He _knew_ the chain rule was simple; he just couldn't keep it in mind long enough to get through a problem without letting the textbook sample guide him through it.

He was openly glaring at the unfinished first problem when May slid a plate of halved sandwiches in front of him and gestured for him to put the textbook away. He did, but not without a muted sigh.

"Bad day?" May guessed.

"Nah, I just don't get my calc homework. It doesn't make any sense." He cut himself off when he stopped to consider that May might—no, make that _would_ —make him stay behind if she thought he couldn't finish his assignment. "…but I can come back to it later! Take a break and work on something else while it sinks in, you know?"

The chill of the room and his own shivering didn't bother him until he lifted another sandwich and shook badly enough to send the food into his nose instead of his mouth. He dropped the offending sandwich and slid his hands down to his lap to hide them, but the damage was done.

Before he could see it coming, May had a hand to his forehead and a disapproving look crossing her face.

"Nope, too warm. Let's get you to bed," she suggested. "Queens can handle a day without Spider-Man."


	23. Chapter 23

**B4**

A/N: This is pre-Civil War since I don't write about Peter without Tony often enough!

 _Moving in a way that causes them pain and tensing up against it._

Street fighting was… faster than it seemed on TV.

Much as Peter would've loved it, there was no formal training available on becoming a vigilante. Not available to him anyway, not as a beginner with no experience and no social connections. It was an unfortunate cycle: Peter had powers but didn't use them effectively out of fear of his abilities and inexperience, which led to mediocre performance on his alter ego's part, which further led to no superheroes wanting to associate with him, which looped back to keeping him not-so-great at what he wanted to do to help his community.

That was why he had no warning about how fast-paced real-life fights were.

He'd avoided them for his first few weeks, focusing on preventing accidents and helping clean up the aftermath when he couldn't prevent them. He stopped car crashes. He walked unsupervised kids home from school. He rescued cats from trees. He _didn't_ fight people.

Until one night, he had to.

In hindsight, Uncle Ben's death was still fresh, and he was still sensitive and predisposed to _react_ to a mugging without thinking it through. It was no wonder what got into him when he heard a struggle next to an ATM in the very early hours of the morning.

Peter dropped everything and came to the victim's aid, upsetting the mugger's balanced with the tug of a well-placed web. The mugger stumbled while the other man turned tail and ran as fast as he could away from Peter, but that still left Peter to deal with the situation.

The mugger caught himself soon enough and lunged at Peter, wrapping his arms around his stomach and tackling him to the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs for a few seconds.

By the time he bounced back from the attack, the mugger had gotten in more than his fair share of hits, and Peter swore he could feel the future bruises already. He flung an arm up to protect his face from the brunt of the next attack, thankful for his fast reflexes.

He was less thankful for them when pain blossomed in his arm immediately afterward, more than an oncoming bruise, more than the scratches one of the cats he'd saved once repaid him with. There was a cracking sound that didn't bode well for him, even with super healing, and he rolled to get out of the mugger's reach.

Instead of following him as Peter expected, the man bounced to his feet and took off down the sidewalk at a dead run with no regard for the pedestrians whose shoulders collided with his and whose shouts echoed down the block.

There was no time to stay still and gather his strength. Taking a cue from the mugger, Peter sprang to his feet too, following the man's path as well as he could remember.

With some distance from the largest herd of pedestrians, he raised an arm and shot a web to a nearby building. Webbing was considerably faster than running in the right conditions, and it was an advantage he couldn't afford to waste now.

All it took to drop that idea was the first twinge of pain that came when he shot the next web from his injured arm. He bit back a curse, having all but forgotten the injury in the thrill of the fight and subsequent chase. He dropped to the ground, and the pain didn't fade behind the adrenaline this time. It wasn't his priority, though.

Running was still an option. He had to clutch his injured arm awkwardly with the uninjured one to minimize the jostling, but he made it work. Superpowers made it easy to outrun all but the most athletic, and in no time, he spotted the mugger, still running through the streets, but not as quickly anymore.

Peter didn't risk close combat a second time. He aimed a web from his good arm and fired a few shots until he was confident the man couldn't escape form the wall he was stuck to.

"I guess crime _doesn't_ pay," he quipped to the criminal. He'd always wanted to make quips, but rescuing cats and helping old ladies cross the street didn't lend themselves to witty banter. This was exhilarating.

…but not enough to justify sticking around. His arm hurt, and this guy sucked for causing it so he wasn't big on the idea of spending more time with him. He walked off instead, only stopping to notify the police when he finally wandered by a payphone.

Now he just had to get home and let Dr. Google take care of him.


	24. Chapter 24

**N4**

 _Scared/ashamed to sleep because of their nightmares, especially around others._

Sixty hours sounds like a long time to go without sleep, but it's not that bad. Really! It's his first time trying it, but it's going to be _fine_. It's worth it for visits with Mr. Stark for sure.

It's just… the nightmares started long ago, before he can even remember. He had no real concept of death when his parents died, but he still woke up in a cold sweat and certain that his parents had been _right there_ more often than not in his younger years. They faded away as he grew older and less fearful and admittedly had more trouble remembering what they were like, but then Spider-Man happened, and then Uncle Ben, and that whole mess came back as bad as ever.

May knows. Of course she does. When he's just Peter, she's his biggest ally, and her compassion only grew once she caught him in the suit and called him out on his job. He still feels guilty every time he yells out in his sleep and keeps her from getting her own eight hours, but she's the best at bringing him back to reality after the dreams, no matter who they're about.

He used to sleep at the compound, no problem. The few nightmares he had were minor, and it only attracted Mr. Stark's attention once when he happened to be walking by Peter's room in the middle of one. That was awkward, but not awful. He calmed down after a minute or so of awkward silence and Mr. Stark was quick to leave after that.

His last overnight visit had been a while ago, though, and in the meantime his dreams had added a new star to the lineup. And while it's embarrassing, he can get over the risk of Mr. Stark seeing him scared for his aunt, Ned, and the family he's lost over time, but getting caught freaking out over Mr. Stark himself? _No way._ The man doesn't _dislike_ him, and he lets Peter come over kind of a lot, and he takes good care of him and everything, but they're not _that_ close—not close enough for it to be normal for Peter to wake up screaming his name.

So, he has this plan. And yeah, maybe it's not the healthiest thing to do, but it _is_ only for one weekend, just until Mr. Stark isn't in his nightmares anymore. He woke up at six this morning (very much against his body's will) to get ready for school. He's got sixteen hours to get through today, then all of Saturday, then probably sixteen more hours before it's time for Happy to take him home to Aunt May. It's not even the sixty hours he originally approximated, only fifty-six! Other teenagers run on too little sleep all the time, so he knows it's no big deal for one teeny tiny weekend. He doesn't think much about it after that. It's a plan that doesn't need any refining.

Compound visits are always fun. He shows up after school and this time they're so busy in the lab that it's almost two in the morning before he knows it. Mr. Stark catches him yawning one too many times after that, and he begrudgingly packs things up for the night.

They walk to the living level together and when Mr. Stark wishes him sweet dreams, he doesn't bother to correct him. He pulls out an energy drink he smuggled into his room earlier and starts on his calculus homework using the light from his phone screen. The night flies by.

He's… sleepy isn't strong enough, but tired is too strong a word for it. He's whatever _that_ is when he hears the telltale clack of high heels that marks Pepper passing by, leaving early for work even on a Saturday. His heart hurts for her, though that's not saying much considering his heart hurts a little in general. The energy drink probably wasn't the best idea, but his heart can get over it.

Well, if Pepper's up, it's not too early for him to "wake up" either.

A cold shower chases away most of the sleepiness and the mildly nauseating post energy drink feeling and makes him feel more human again. He pulls on an outfit from his overnight bag before considering his plans.

Mr. Stark won't be awake so early if history has anything to say. Ned's weekend sleep schedule consistently matches Mr. Stark's, so no online co-op games either. There's nothing left to do for school. A quick check with FRIDAY reveals that yes, he still needs Mr. Stark's supervision to enter the lab, and the biometric lock system stops him from "forgetting" that little detail. He never thought he'd say this in the compound, but man, he's bored.

With nothing else to do, he wanders the compound aimlessly. It's always emptier than he imagines it to be. He grew up fantasizing with his childhood friends about what it would be like living in the tower with the Avengers: running into their respective favorites in the hallways, going flying with Iron Man, seeing how strong the Hulk really was, that kind of thing. This emptiness had never been part of the visions they shared.

The paths he takes weave through the building and its exterior at random. Hours tick by while he passes though some areas several times without ever seeing other rooms. FRIDAY is his only companion, and she's a great AI, but she's not the best conversationalist.

He spares a longing gaze toward the training building each time he passes by it, but that's yet another area kept locked up when Mr. Stark isn't with him. It's a shame. Training would feel great right about now, something to wake him up and distract him from the encroaching tiredness dragging his eyelids closed any time he stops actively thinking about staying alert.

How long has he lasted? He taps at his phone to check, but he must have forgotten to charge it because the screen stubbornly stays blank. A glance at the sky shows the sun almost directly above him, so it's gotta be close to noon, so… thirty hours to go.

Oh God. He can't do this without a break, no way.

A nap under one of the compound's many trees will help, he knows it. It's far enough from everyone else that even if the worst happens, no one should find out. There's just the matter of waking himself up before Mr. Stark comes looking for him…

…which he promptly fails at.

Someone shakes him awake before he has the chance to come to naturally. It's disorienting, but he's used to waking throughout the night thanks to loud (often severely drunk) passersby, reckless drivers screeching their tires for the hell of it, neighbors coming home from their second shift jobs—that's not important. He's falling into a thought tangent instead of focusing on the famous engineer and superhero right in front of him.

"Heyyyyyy, Mr. Stark." His voice is gravelly from disuse, but he works the weird sound away by the end of the greeting.

What's more important is that his heart isn't pounding and no memories of Uncle Ben or Aunt May or Ned or Mr. Stark greet him. He screwed up, but not too badly. He's still fine. He's still good.

Thank God for social norms. Mr. Stark isn't as stringent about following them as Peter expects a public figure to be, but they're not completely absent either, and that's all that saves him from further questioning. He gets a "Hey yourself, kid," and then they're off about their day together like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

The nap did its job of refreshing him, but it doesn't last for long.

He's nodding off at the lab table. He knows he is, but he can't feel it coming on until it's already happening, can't stop doing it over and over and over and over. His saving grace is that Mr. Stark is fully focused on his own project and not paying attention to Peter's aborted falling forward and jerking movements. His progress on the tech at the table is at a standstill.

It's all over when he slumps over onto the table and doesn't immediately right himself. That's all the permission his body needs to slip into unconsciousness in five seconds flat.

Dark figures disappear, and instinct tells him those are his parents. He follows where he saw them last, but he's marching through mud and can barely move forward, let alone catch up.

They fade away.

The mud is still there, but it's not mud anymore. It's an ocean of blood pressing against him from his chest down, sickeningly warm. Uncle Ben is there, but he's unconscious and barely clinging to life. Maybe there's time to help him.

There's not.

Aunt May appears and all at once he realizes the ocean popped out of existence, but something's still not right. She's not happy. She's frowning at him in that way that only comes out when he's done something horribly wrong. What did he do? He scrambles to remember.

She walks away too. He trips trying to chase after her.

When he looks up, Ned's extending a hand to him to help him up, but then the Vulture is there, swooping in from above. Peter blinks and blood blooms on Ned's chest where he was impaled by the mechanical claws.

"You were supposed to protect us," Ned wheezes around the metal. The Vulture drops him, but he doesn't stop when he hits the ground.

Peter stands frozen in fear while Ned falls into the abyss just a foot away.

Peter doesn't have his suit, his webslingers. There's no way to follow after him without dooming them both, but why does he deserve to live if he let all of them die already?

But then Iron Man is there. The high pitch that follows when the suit is in flight warns him ahead of time. Mr. Stark swoops down after Ned, and Peter leaps for the Vulture to cause a distraction. Mr. Stark needs to focus on the rescue, not the bad guy.

They wrestle what feels like forever. It's a struggle to keep him occupied, but he gives it everything he has. There's no suit to help him tune out the extra stimuli or protect him from the brunt of the blows, but he manages. Eventually, one final hit knocks the Vulture out, and Peter barely spares a moment to make sure he's really down before he turns to check on Ned.

Only Ned isn't there anymore. He sees the brilliant red of the Iron Man suit but no trace of the lime green Ned had decided to wear to this place.

It's not as far down as he though, so he leaps down to see if Mr. Stark knows where Ned went.

Mr. Stark isn't standing like he thought. He's struggling to stay balanced on one knee. Peter can tell somehow. He sprints the last few steps and raises his arms to help support him.

Mr. Stark doesn't let him.

"I wish I'd never met you," he hisses when the mask slides back to reveal his face. "Everyone suffers because of you. Why do you keep getting us killed?"

Peter recoils at the accusation, but he doesn't fight it. It's not wrong. He _does_ get everyone he loves hurt. _Everyone._ They would be safer if he disappeared. Maybe he should.

Out of nowhere, a gunshot rings out, and he thinks he's back with Ben again, but he's not. Mr. Stark slumps forward, silent now.

He's screaming when he wakes.

Something solid connects with one of his flailing arms and then clatters against the floor. He can't check what it was before Mr. Stark is by his side. He doesn't think before flinging himself into the man's arms.

Somehow, Mr. Stark knows not to ask about the nightmares. He just lets Peter cling to him while he grounds himself to reality. Nothing more, nothing less. It's exactly what he's always needed.


End file.
